Alone
by scribbled.ink
Summary: John Watson wasn't a man who was scared easily, but as he stared at Sherlock Holmes' limp body on the pavement, he had never been more terrified in his life. Character Death. Warnings: Suicide


Sherlock hadn't meant for this to happen- but, it did. John wasn't supposed to know, John wasn't supposed to find out.

This was wrong, all wrong.

This wasn't the plan.

This wasn't how he had fixated this moment in his mind.

This was uncharted territory, and Sherlock was scared.

Yes, Sherlock Holmes was scared.

Because he knew, he knew, exactly what would happen now.

John was going to leave him.

John was going to leave him alone.

Alone.

That was what always happened, wasn't it?

.

.

.

John Watson was not a man who was scared easily, but at that moment, he had never been more terrified in his life.

"Sherlock? Sherlock?!" The limp form on the ground did not respond. "Sherlock, please, wake up. Now. Stop fooling around. Stop it. You are going to wake up. Please. Please! Sherlock, please, for me. Wake up for me."

John furiously worked in trying to stop the blood, but it didn't do. Red crimson poured out from the wound and didn't cease to stop. The grey snow and gravel under them was now a dark, thick pool of red.

The sound of sirens was drowned by the sobs escaping John's lips.

The feel of Sherlock's blood on his hands was enough to make him ill.

The metallic taste that found its way to John's lips forced a gag in his mouth.

But the worst thing, the worst thing at that moment was the smell.

It was the smell of death.

.

"Mr. Watson you need to step out of the way."

"No, no. He's my friend."

"Mr. Watson," a man grabbed his bicep, and John ripped out of it, forcing himself above Sherlock.

"John." A voice, solemn and grief-stricken said. He turned to see Lestrade standing, stiffened and horrified. "John, you are a doctor. You know that this isn't helping Sherlock. We need to get him to the hospital." John grimaced.

They didn't know.

They didn't know that Sherlock was already dead.

Reluctantly, he stood, and stepped out of the way. Immediately, paramedics rushed to the fallen detective's side, placing him on a bright yellow gurney. John dragged himself a few feet, closer to the DI, and pointed finger at Sherlock.

"You- you can't help him."

"John-"

"He's already dead."

"We can save him; we can still save him, John."

"It's been eight minutes, Greg. No you can't. Sherlock's dead.

.

.

.

* * *

><p>Sherlock stared at the gun.<p>

He needed to hurry.

John would be here any minute.

He placed the gun to his chest, and put his pointer finger on the trigger. He let out a shaky breath, but didn't cry. No, Sherlock Holmes was not a man to cry. Ever.

John wasn't supposed to be home for another hour. He had come home early.

Sherlock was in his room, and had he door slightly ajar. His sleeve were rolled up, and red thin lines, perfectly symmetrical, littered his forearms. His little red box was in front of him, including his bottle of pills.

His opened bottle of pills.

.

John had discovered his addiction- his secret.

.

The look on his face, that was the worst. It was the look of utter disappointment. He had seen it all to many times. From Mycroft, mostly. John hated him. John hated what he had become. Sherlock knew it. Sherlock knew exactly what was going through John's mind at that moment. And Sherlock knew what would happen next.

He was going to be alone, again.

Alone.

Alone.

Alone.

That was what always happened.

.

Now, Sherlock was in an alley, behind Baker Street, and with an emotionless expression on his face.

He placed the gun to his chest, and put his pointer finger on the trigger.

John was coming, he heard the rapid footsteps.

.

There was no time to think now, no time to calculate how he would fall, the speed of which he would lose consciousness, no time at all.

He needed to stop being Sherlock, and start being human.

Human.

Don't think, just do.

.

He pulled the trigger.

.

"SHERLOCK!"  
>.<p>

The world became clear in his last moments, he saw John scramble to his side. He saw the tears in John's eyes. John was crying- he was sad. He had disappointed John, again. He always seemed to disappoint people in the end.

.

But now things would be okay.

* * *

><p>.<p>

.

.

Sherlock Holmes' funeral went as he had predicted.

Only a select few were allowed to attend.

It had been private, but the grief was still immaculate.

Sherlock Holmes was buried alone.

Alone.

Alone.

Alone.

That was what always happened, wasn't it?

.

.

.

Fin.

.

.

**Okay, this is my first Sherlock fic. I know that it is short but I thought of the idea and jotted it down real quick. **


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